the quiet

a day off, a post-holiday day to start or finish those things that never seem to find time. i type while he sleeps - a weak attempt to start our book. a few moments to clean the basement, which has been a wreck for far too long and a surprise visit from the handyman. i quickly run the vaccuum, thinking about this cherished day, the first at home in a month, and i plan and count and map out all the hours and think of all that i do.

and as he gets up, the lists fade and the time isn’t counted. we have a day for anything but all we want to do is rest. in the quiet and in the first day of snow on the grass. i mention how i feel like a better person when the house is clean, and he tells me that’s silly. i dig around the fridge for breakfast, knowing neither eggs or milk will be found, but somehow pull off a delicious shake. and we just sit. and we share a cup of the shake. i take one sip, he takes two. the coffee is brewing.

frank sinatra hums on the record. the washer runs in the basement. as we rest on the couch, the snow starts to fall again, just catching glimpses through our thrift lace curtains. and it, the quiet, is enough. we have enough, we have more than enough.